This was written as
a Christmas Gift-Fic for Winnychan who wanted to see this interaction
to take place. Her TMNT fics were amongst the first I read and loved.
She has a beautiful way of bringing the Guys to life that delighted
me from the get-go and has always supported my writing in the fandom.
Thanks Win! Merry Christmas!

---

Sparring

Now is probably not
the optimal time, Donatello thought, stirring a heaped teaspoon
of stevia into his espresso. Raphael had just entered the lair, the
camouflaged brick walls sliding shut with a soft schtink.

On the other hand, it
was now or never.

He'd been debating
with himself whether or not to approach Raphael on this matter for a
few weeks now, ever since he'd first noticed.

He knew, in his heart,
that it was the right thing to do. He also knew, in his heart and
mind and stomach, that Raphael would not agree with him.

Especially considering
the way they'd been getting on lately.

He continued to stir
his coffee steadily, the spoon moving in automatic circles, staring
blankly out across the lair where his brother strode across the den
space, stretching his bulky arms up above his head and opening his
maw in a great yawn.

Raphael always seemed
to need to unwind a little when he returned from his all-night
sojourns and this morning was no different. He kicked aside a sofa
cushion that had been knocked to the ground sometime during the
previous evening and slumped down in one of the reclining armchairs,
flicking the television on.

Donatello realised he
was still stirring his coffee and set the teaspoon down with a jerk
on the sink, it chinking quietly. Raphael did not look over from the
armchair, his eyes glazed over as he stared blindly at the flickering
screen. Donatello looked down into the murky dark depths of his mug
and sighed, then began padding over to where his brother sat.

Within two feet of
Raphael, he reeled, and the aggravation – which he had to admit had
been the first motivator for him to decide on initiating this
conversation with Raphael – flared up again, like hot white sparks
fizzling in the circuitry of his brain.

He circled around and
came up behind Raphael's armchair, suddenly unwilling to approach
his brother with this irritation so fresh and fierce. His bo was
propped up against the couch where he'd leant it, moving from his
bedroom through the den to the kitchen. It had edged sideways, in
danger of sliding to the ground, and he straightened it.

He wasn't sure what
annoyed him more. That Raphael seemed to think he was stupid, and
wouldn't notice; or that if Leonardo had been here, things would
not have gone on for as long as what they had without the issue being
broached.

He almost wanted to
think Raphael never would've dared gone this far if Leonardo was
still here, but he knew that was a cop-out.

He tapped the toes of
one foot against the thread-bare rug thrown across the raised
platform where the couches were clustered and took a soothing sip of
his coffee. Funny the way it was supposed to be a stimulant, yet it
always calmed him down. He cupped his hands around the mug gratefully
and inhaled the aroma of the incinerated little beans. And caught the
scent that clung to Raphael again.

Maybe he genuinely
doesn't notice it. Donatello considered charitably, willing
himself to be fair. But that – that couldn't be possible. Not
only was the scent of the girl almost offensively strong to his
heightened sense of smell, Raphael brought back other telling odours
– alcohol and musty, damp cotton and, worst of all – nicotine –
great, clinging clouds of it. It seemed to hang in the air of the den
for days, putrid and poisonous smelling.

But that wasn't even
all of it. It was his behaviour too. Skulking around, being evasive
about where he was going and what he'd been doing. Staying out all
night and returning at dawn, exhausted. Funnily enough, his
aggression also seemed to have decreased. Of course, when it came to
Raphael, that didn't mean a whole lot. He was still like a bull in
a ring, just maybe without the red flag flickering at him.

He either thinks I'm
stupid, or he just doesn't care, Donatello could hear his
mind's voice, the one which so rarely made it to his mouth,
snarling and savage.

Which was worse?

"You checkin' to
see if I'm breathin', Don?" Raphael's voice broke the
silence, gruff and bleary, his
I'm-too-tired-to-be-in-the-mood-to-talk-to-you-Brainiac voice and
it raised Donatello's hackles right up.

"Oh Raphael, you're
up early." He replied in a concertedly casual tone of voice,
walking around the armchair to stand in a position just enough to
block Raphael's view of the television without it seeming
deliberate. Passive-aggressive, a little voice cautioned him,
but he shook it off.

Raphael did not bother
to open his half-lidded eyes, just stared numbly at Donatello then
said heavily: "I just got home. And you know it."

"And how was Casey
last night?" Donatello crossed in front of Raphael, moving to the
sofa set slightly back from the battered old arm-chair, settling into
it in order to leave his brother no doubt he was there to stay. He
waited to see what Raphael said, wanting to catch his brother in the
lie.

But Raphael was cannier than he gave
him credit for. After a long pause in which he was unable to catch
his brother's facial expression, having moved just further back
enough for it to be out of sight, Raphael replied carefully:

"Wasn't with
Casey."

"April?"

"Wasn't with
April."

"Oh. You were alone
then?"

Another pause.
Donatello waited. It felt suddenly stupid, not to mention vicious,
trying to catch Raphael out like this, but he wanted to see just how
far his brother would drag the charade out.

But Raphael evidently
wasn't in the mood to play that morning. He pushed himself out of
the armchair and strode off the platform, heading towards the
stairway, not looking at Donatello.

And another little
voice murmured in his ear: Be nice.

"Uh Raph, hang on a
moment…"

Raphael turned slowly
at the new tone in his voice, an eyeridge cocked, his eyes still
slitted, one hand on his belt. Donatello continued, encouraged and
confounded at once:

"I just wanted… to
talk… a moment…"

And then he felt a wave
of sadness. True, he and Raphael had never spent a lot of time in
heart to hearts, but they used to have fun. Lots of fun. Playing
video games, picking on Mikey, working out mechanical puzzles and
souping up the van… they'd been a good team. All of that had
stopped over the last twelve months. These days, any conversations
they had always seemed to end up with him trying to explain reality
and practicality to Raphael in the most straight-forward way, to
which Raphael responded by doing what he did best: getting angry.
Donatello couldn't figure out why. He was trying to do
things differently to Leonardo – not talking at Raphael, but
just – just explaining things to him. It just didn't seem
to work. He'd practically resigned himself to the fact that Raphael
just had a problem with authority, full-stop.

He became aware, with a
start, that Raphael had stepped back up onto the platform and swung
the armchair around to face him, sitting in it with his legs spread
and leaning forward, arms dangling over his thighs. Raphael briefly
met his eyes, shrugged uncomfortably and spoke: "So. Uh. What did
ya wanna talk about?."

Donatello had never
imagined this was going to be easy. Still, now he was faced with it,
it seemed excruciatingly more difficult than even he'd anticipated.
He took another gulp of his coffee to steady his nerves, coughed in
readiness to speak, then took another sip.

They sat in silence,
each nervously looking around them rather than at each other.

Donatello set his now
empty coffee mug on the coffee table and caught sight of the latest
copy of Hustler magazine jumbled up in the debris there.

Damn Mikey. Went
to bed and left it there. Again. And it was going to be up to
Donatello to put it away before Splinter left his room. Again.

Then in a fit of
inspiration, he swiped the magazine up and began rifling through the
pages. "You'd think Mikey would take better care of his porn."
He croaked, evincing what he thought was a rather good jab at
camaraderie.

If Raphael was
surprised, he didn't let on. "You kiddin'?" He managed to
sound almost light-hearted. "He's got the stuff alphabetacised."

Donatello resisted the
urge to correct Raphael, sensing it would not work in his favour
right now. He continued to flick through the rhythm rag, catching
sight of peroxided locks, unnaturally large breasts balanced upon
unnaturally tiny waists, and dozens upon dozens of slickly-glossed
pouting lips. "What is it with the tanlines?" he queried his
brother. He wasn't trying to make conversation, he was genuinely
curious. "There's something about porn and tanlines so vivid
they're practically UV. " Raphael chuckled and Donatello's
confidence rose. "And the silicone – I mean, I don't get it. It
doesn't move. It just – sits. What, do the men who
get into this stuff just want something indestructible to hang onto
when the nuke hits?"

Raphael's raspy laugh
rose in volume and he rubbed at one eye with the back of a fist.
"Substitutes cryin' for Mommy, I s'pose."

Donatello held the
magazine up by one end, letting it flop naturally open into the
centrefold. "Well, at least the Lady of the Month stands out this
time around." He observed and turned the magazine around so Raphael
could have a look. His brother's eyelids flickered as he took an
obliging look, then his gaze darted away again. Donatello felt the
blood crawl into his cheeks. This definitely wasn't something he
and Raphael used to do together. But he'd started on this course
and for better or for worse, dammnit… "She's pretty hot,
actually. Her ribs show, but her boobs are natural at least. They're
– they're nice boobs too. Great, actually. I bet they – uh –
acchhhem" he sputtered and continued desperately, aware Raphael had
crossed his arms over his plastron and was glaring off to the side.
"She's a redhead as well. Gee, that's unusual for the
centrefold. Natural too, by the looks of it," Geeze, that sounds
sleazy, "they haven't even air-brushed her freckles out.
Hell, I might even start buying Hustler if they keep this – "

Donatello tossed the
magazine back on the table and wiped his brow. Well, that was a bust.
"Sorry," he said sincerely and Raphael uncrossed his arms,
kneading his eyes with his thumbs, kinda, almost sorta, grinning.
Donatello reached beside the couch and stroked his bo-staff. He
needed some sort of bolster.

"So, Raph. Do you
know about safe sex?"

The words just sort of
spat themselves out and Donatello jerked forward and swallowed, as
though he could suck them back in.

Raphael's reaction
was immediate. "What? Are you kiddin'? What the hell?" He sat
up sharply, instantly defensive. He looked distinctly cheated, as
though he'd been lulled into a false sense of security. Although
there really hadn't been anything secure about it so to
speak…

"I just wondered,"
Donatello hastened on, "it's just – well. You never know when
this information – might be useful."

Raphael had once again
crossed his arms and was staring at his brother with now wide-open
eyes, his expression sour.

"We're mutant
turtles, Don." he said dryly. "We'd have to be real lucky."

And suddenly Donatello
was annoyed again. He's playing that card, he thought in
disgust. How can he be so brazen. Does he think I'm stupid, or
does he just. Not. Care?"

Careful to keep his
voice neutral, struggling against the irritation, he responded:
"Well, we have encountered females in other dimensions – on other
planets – and I think we've all enjoyed a flirtation, or an
exchanged glance or two – sometimes with humans, ven. I actually
don't think it's as unlikely as I once did. At least, I hope
not." And he hoped that last remark would convince Raphael he was
on his side. He just wanted his brother to be honest. Heck,
why hadn't Raphael considered he might be worried about him?

Why did Raphael never
consider things like that?

His brother continued
to sit in stony silence and Donatello hemmed softly. He didn't
trust himself to speak calmly any further, so instead he adopted the
same matter-of-fact yet entirely-friendly voice he had grown most
comfortable with, momentarily forgetting it inexplicably made Raphael
angry.

"Also – didn't
you have that friend – the human girl – the one who stayed with
us – what was her name, Amy – or Andrea – "

"Amber."

Raphael's voice was a
low growl. If there had been any doubt remaining, it was cleared up
now.

"That's right. She
was a redhead too – like uh, Miss March over there. How's she?"
He kept his voice light, easy, but Raphael was visibly glowering,
sinking further into the chair cushions. This isn't going very
well, the little voice piped up again, but he ignored it as
Raphael blurted out his blunt response.

"Fine. "

"Soo – you still
see her?"

"Yes."

The monosyllabic
answers should've warned him off but he persisted. "Have you
started – um – have you tried anything – of a sexual nature –
"

"That does it."
Raphael kicked back against the sofa as he stood up, clenching his
fists by his side. "I'm outta here." He spun on his heel and
stormed off and Donatello leapt to his feet, grasping his bo tight,
furious at his brother's blatant disregard, desperate not to let
this go.

"I know you're
sleeping with her." He threw at Raphael's retreating shell and
his brother pulled up short, spinning around to meet Donatello's
eyes. He couldn't help a slight smirk.

"Ain't no sleepin'
involved." He said snidely and turned back again, heading towards
the stairs.

No. Donatello
thought. No. You do not get off that easy.

He darted after his
brother, leaping onto the cement flagstones and calling out, as
softly as he could, aware of the rest of the sleeping household.

"Raphael, have you
even thought about what you're doing? You need to be
careful. I mean, there's a risk associated with anyone, but with
her it would be increased."

Raphael halted, fists
balled, his head snapping up straight. Still with his back to
Donatello, he growled.

"You did not
just say that."

It was always the
same.

"I'm not trying to
be insulting." He said wearily, unable to help a tinge of
duh-I'm-just-pointing-out-the-obvious creep into his voice. "I'm
just stating the truth."

Raphael turned slowly
around, grinding his teeth and glaring furiously at him. Donatello
felt his guts sink. Should've known. With the amount of
testosterone Raphael was expending on this girl, his reactions were
going to be the most instinctive and brute.

His brother strode back
across the den towards him, and Donatello stood his ground, even as
he struggled not to swallow the lump in his throat, a tell-tale
signal Raphael wouldn't fail to notice.

Raphael came up toe to
toe with Donatello, his shoulders lifted and hunched forward.

Raphael was a couple of
inches taller than all of them, and he was the biggest. The weight
training he'd been doing had made him broad and heavily muscled,
but he was also naturally stronger.

Raphael was also a
bully.

He'd always been a
bully.

When they were kids,
Raphael played King of the Castle even when there was no Castle. It
took only a bout of well-orchestrated tears from Michelangelo to have
the hothead repentant; but Donatello had never been able to manage
that tactic. He'd always attempted to stand up for himself before
inevitably growing nervous and consequently, slightly breathless.
Raphael would inevitably notice and this would just increase his
taunting and shoving, and that would inevitably lead to Donatello
snapping back with some sharply observed and desperate insult,
usually around Raphael's intellectual aptitude. And then that
would lead to the inevitable fisticuffs. Which Donatello would
inevitably lose.

Donatello was a good
fighter – a great fighter – but he was always slightly
overwhelmed by Raphael's skill and strength and sheer aggression,
plus the fact it was his brother who was 'knockin' the
stuffin outta him' as Raphael would crow. This was long before they
ever went into a real battle – or really thought they ever would.
And besides, as he would remind himself, he had other things to do
besides practice and fight all the time, like Raphael did. Other
interests. And other aptitudes.

Which did not
include leading the team, he conceded glumly as Raphael drew
himself up to full height, attempting to intimidate his brother (and
succeeding, Donatello had to further concede). They hadn't had
this sort of show-down for years, but he knew it had been months in
the making and damned if he was going to back down to the bully now.
Not after the way Raphael had been so careless, and so thoughtless
and so damned inconsiderate and – and so frickin' stupid.

His grip on the
bo-staff tightened and Raphael noted it, eyes darting to his hand
sharply then back up to hook Donatello's gaze.

"You challengin'
me, Donnie?" There was a faint tinge of amusement in Raphael's
voice, something akin to mockery. Not only that, but Raphael had a
way of putting nuances on the diminutives when he wanted to establish
the pecking order. Donnie, just then, was Raphael's way of
letting him know who he figured was the weaker of the two. Donatello
bristled and straightened.

"No, Raphie,"
his usual matter-of-fact voice, this time dripping with sarcasm,
"It's morning. I've just woken up. Which means that I haven't
had my staff strapped to my shell all night because, let's face it,
that's not comfortable. Hence why I'm carrying it. And I'm
carrying it because, once again, it's morning. And I'm on my way
to do what we always do in the morning. That is, train."

Raphael glowered at the
disdainful tone of his voice, his face blank with fury.

"Well, you need it,
little brother."

It had once been a debate who was the
eldest out of Donatello and Raphael, but that wasn't what Raphael
meant, of course. Donatello felt blood pool into his cheeks again,
woefully aware of the slightness of his frame in comparison to his
brother's.

"And you need a shower." He said,
keeping his voice low to stop it from cracking, forcing himself to
hold Raphael's eyes. Raphael edged forward again, teeth clenched,
but Donatello stood his ground, bo-staff digging hard into the cement
slabs, his grip on it so fierce he thought he'd somehow find a
splinter in the perfectly sanded wood. It kept him upright as Raphael
sneered and stepped back, still holding Donatello's eyes. But
Raphael seemed to be letting this one go, turning slowly away, fists
still clenched and shoulders hunched up like a linebackers and
Donatello let out a breath he hadn't even realised he was holding.

"Least I'm gettin' some," he
heard Raphael mutter, his tone somewhere between smug and vindictive
and Donatello couldn't help rolling his eyes. Oh please. As
if it had ever been about that. It was finally one insult too
many.

"Just be careful you
don't catch some sort of disease." He called out to his
retreating brother spitefully.

Raphael whirled around,
his temper so ignited it seemed to crackle through every bulging vein
as his muscles tensed and he ground his teeth hard enough Donatello
heard them crunch against each other.

This is going to
hurt, Donatello thought resignedly as Raphael came barrelling
toward him, and tossed his bo-staff to the side, then brought his
fists up and ready.

Guess it'll count
as training.

The author would like to thank you for your continued support. Your review has been posted.